


but im praying it's gone at last

by husbandcoded



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M, if this was a character study it is no it wasn't(heart emoji) kind of vibes, louise mcintyre is mentioned she's chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29170026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/husbandcoded/pseuds/husbandcoded
Summary: He’s not getting his hopes up for the kids here. Not expecting a miracle worker.But, hey. Maybe the new guy’ll be more fun than Frank.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 9
Kudos: 36





	but im praying it's gone at last

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo I gotta couple the actually decent lines from this(decide for yourself what those are) stuck in my head and ended up coughing this out like a cat regurgitating a hairball. Apologies for the gross visual but hope you enjoy. :)  
> also straight up this is not edited at all. we don't do that here

"Youever think we might be going about this all wrong?" Trapper mutters into Hawkeye's shoulder. 

"Mm. Hm?"

"Haven't even introduced you to my mother yet."

He doesn't write Louise until he's two weeks (see: three-hundred thirty hours and ten minutes, give or take a few years,) through his first month in Korea. But in fairness there hadn't been much to write about. Nothing he'd want her to have to hear, anyway. 

One-hundred hours in the operating room, twenty in post-op, six accumulative spent with a few belts borrowed from the CO's office, and, in John Mcintyre's certified medical opinion, what couldn't have been more than two or three in the sack. As fatigued he'd been from surgery and daydreaming about sleep and _daydreaming about sleep during surgery,_ the first time he’d had the chance to lay down he hadn't even minded the empty bed. The moment his head had hit his brand new military-issue pillow, (and the frame of the cot underneath,) he'd gone out like a light. 

Which, is a turn of phrase he’s got a new relationship with. When he thinks “out like a light," he thinks the ones at home. The ones in their kitchen and bathroom and bedroom, that he and Louise had installed. Not like the shiny silver disks suspended above the operating tables, bright and burning and a constant reminder that he can't look away. He's not allowed, else he'll lose the patient. Else he'll lose his breakfast. 

Else he'll lose his nerve. 

The days all blur together like how city streets do when you squint. All sorts of people and trucks and jeeps pass through, in the blink of an eye or over the course of an hour. It's like one great big colony, and the soldiers and the doctors hum around like some swarm of wasps. The obvious WASP joke he'd think of next week is lost on him. Might as well have thought of it now, as inconsequential it is. 

He hasn't been keeping a calendar, seeing as there's little significance to "Friday, July 14th" when you're elbows deep in a bleeding patient and your gloved hands are dyed "senseless violence" red every ten hours out of the day, regardless of when the sun rises and sets. It's exhausting. He spends most of his time not thinking about it. 

So he sleeps, and he dreams. 

And he's always had real vivid dreams. Used to wake his brother up early in the morning, kicking him from across the bed. There was this recurring dream he'd had- about ages ten to fifteen, in which he'd go up to the front of the classroom to give this speech, about his teacher's favorite (doorframe, roof, church pew,) but when he'd open his mouth to recite the words would come out wrong. Mean in a way his teacher would lilt to his mother, _"is just so unlike him."_ As insults about the craftsmanship and at the people whose lives the structures were built around. And there would never be anybody out in the seats- no one he recognized, but he could _feel_ the people in the seats. Could feel their discontent. And course, to a ten year old who’d spent most of his life till then going outta his way to avoid attention- especially negative, that was the scariest thing in the world. He'd turn to the teacher for help- drenched in sweat, but they'd already be turned away toward the board. And even though throughout the entire dream he could never see their face, he always knew they were disappointed in him. 

The dreams usually ended with him being sick out in the hall. 

When he dreams now, he's in the OR hunched over a kid whose belly’s cut open- instead of standing at the front of an empty classroom. And the disappointed back of his teacher is that of the kid's weeping mother- Klinger, in a pale pink sheath. It changes some every time he closes his eyes- the patient's name, the patient's condition, the color of Klinger's dress. But funnily enough, the dreams end the exact same way. 

A few hours- or maybe another week goes by, and when he wakes up he's aching all over. And maybe questioning his dedication to the Hippocratic oath he's sworn to, cause of his tentmate's whistling. Today's reveille; 'the Star Spangled Banner, with notes of 'America the Beautiful.' Though while he's not real enthused about Burns' tuneful proclivities, he respects the way he's managed the impossible. It's not easy to ruin one and a half songs at once, and all this before his morning shave. 

That said, he's exhausted and already itching for a drink- would that he could find one, and feeling inclined to chuck his boot at Frank's face if this serenade goes on any longer. 

Fortunately, the 4077th is spared another casualty- and Trapper the court martial, as Radar barges in, halting every five seconds to gather up letters from the trail of incoming mail that continues to fall out of his shoulder bag, even as the tent door swings shut behind him.

"Corporal!" 

"Sir, yes sir?"

Radar whips around from his stance- where he’d been facing away from Major Burns, with his head below his hips, bent down grabbing at fistfulls of postage. Burns narrows his eyes. He's got a good ferret impression. He could make money with it at carnivals. 

"You will stand at attention and address your superior officers, Corporal." 

"Absolutely sir. Yes, your... majorness." 

Still tired and feeling newly weary with Frank after this morning's concert, Trapper slouches up off his mattress as much "at attention" as he can manage, and sketches a mock salute to Radar.

"You got any mail for me, Radar?" 

"Oh, no sir. Just a letter from Major Burns's wife.” Radar’s still turned, addressing Frank. “She's not too happy about how you went off without leaving some sort of-" 

At Frank's troubling glare, Radar trails off, leaving it at that. And Frank must be thinking especially loud this morning, because Trapper could swear he caught some of the man's own opinions on Trap's organizational habits- in addition to whatever threats he'd had in mind to direct at their company clerk, before Radar's eyes had widened and he'd begun his hasty retreat. 

"Yes sir." 

Radar’s all the way out the door before he turns around and calls back through the mesh netting. “Oh, wait. Hey, sirs! Henry-Colonel Blake wants to see you in his office in ten minutes.”

“‘’Ten minutes?’ Doesn’t he know we’re supposed to be on military time?” ” Frank emphasizes the word “minutes” with a sneer, like the idea of anything civilian has about the same appeal as the food in the Mess. Which is funny, seeing as a. the two systems aren't mutually exclusive, that's not how military time works, and b. Trapper knows Frank knows that, because he knows Frank has a watch- one he uses plenty to mark the time between his dates with Houlihan. And on that note, he’s _heard_ Burns’s rants about the local infidelity, the hypocrite. The way he swings that Bible around it’s a miracle he hasn’t bodied anyone with it. And the two of them get along okay, sure. But Trapper wouldn’t call them friends. It just happens he’s chronically conflict-avoidant, at least the verbal kind, and can barely so much as stand up after hours in the OR, let alone pick a fight with a man whose ideal morning involves a whole lot more saluting and pledging allegiance than Trapper could (literally) stand for. So they’re on peaceable terms, but Frank makes that tolerance difficult. It’s like he goes out of his way to be as unlikable as possible.

Radar just shrugs. “The 4077’s getting a new surgeon. He’s supposed to arrive within the hour.” 

With a groan of acknowledgment, Trapper hauls himself up off his bed. 

“Alright,” he waves, dismissing Radar. Setting him free from Burns’s malpracticeful glare. “Alright, thanks Radar.” 

Trapper turns back around on his cot to lace up his boots, acknowledging Radar’s grateful nod over his shoulder as the kid scampers away.

A new surgeon. Boy could they use one. Trapper would never say so to the man’s face- wouldn’t bother unless he thought it was a danger to the kids on the operating table, but he ain’t all that impressed with Frank’s surgical skills. In just two weeks of shifts he’d managed to commit more missteps on the table than Trap thinks he managed even in his first week of residency. And he's sympathetic. Being out here, it's nothing like being in a nice sterile hospital building. There's things you'd never even think to account for. Stepping inside that crowded bus, full'a bodies for to triage, and seeing these kids piled up on the cots- that's challenge enough. But he’s taken extra care- gone out of his way to check in with some of the kids Frank’s operated on the past week when he could. Just in case. So if this new guy’s any good, the workload around the 4077th will be on its way down from “impossible” to “barely manageable.” 

Which is still a generous figure, given the unending flood of bodies that keep on flowing through. So he’s not getting his hopes up for the kids here. Not expecting a miracle worker. 

But, hey. Maybe the new guy’ll be more fun than Frank.

"Nono please, 'Hawkeye.' Hawkeye. Call me 'Ben' and I feel like I'm back in Mrs. Gershwin's detention.." Pierce is a character. That's the only way to describe him- he talks and moves like he's jumped right out of some colored film. 

The confidence with which he'd greeted their new command would've been almost intimidating if Trapper wasn't starting to suspect it was part-act. 

Louise would like him, he thinks. In fact he sort of reminds him of her. He feels a pang in his chest. 

Louise, who he ain't written yet. 

A month seems like a long enough time to go without writing. (Too long- if he doesn't hear from his girls soon he'll start cooing at stray rodents like Radar.) and he hasn't got any letters from the folks stateside yet. So he sits back in his cot- legs out off the frame and ankles crossed over his footlocker, and gets to writing. And he finds that for the first time in weeks- since throwing down his bag of golf clubs at the foot of his bed and pinning a single picture of Louise and the girls to a plank in the tent's frame, since scrubbing for his first operation in Korea, and since oh-nine-hundred hours this morning, he's got plenty to write about. 

Oliver Jones (an excellent surgeon and an even better co-conspirator at majors Burns and Hot Lips' expense) is cycled in, and then out of the 4077th. Hawkeye is appointed chief surgeon. Life goes on, business as usual. 

And there’s plenty of business. They’ve got choppers and buses, and what feels like thousands of men piling up outside the OR. Guys with bullet fragments in all sorts of places and guys who’ll never quite get to use that limb the same and guys who hold onto each other from across their separate Post-op beds and pull away when one of the doctors or nurses look over. Guys who don’t want to go under, and in the chaos instead pass out from the pain. 

It’s strange to see all the kids- kids like him, who pass through. The ones with pictures of their friends in their breast pockets who won't meet your eyes and affect flirtation with the nurses. Mostly it's subtle. You wouldn't notice unless you knew- _really_ knew what you were looking for. Majority of the kids are pretty quiet. And he can't be certain, of course. But sometimes they get a guy with a mouth that runs a mile a minute- funny, in a Hawkeye way, who'll joke and tease around Post-op till he has to be physically tucked back into his cot. Being comically mannered and daring any member of his bed-ridden audience to make something of it. 

Other times, a pair of good friends, real close war buddies, will make every excuse to sit by each other's side. Typical friendship stuff. Only Trapper's not sure your conventional friendship involves so much hand-holding and sneaking glances between doctors' rounds. And when a soldier's real hurt - unable to get out of bed, his friend will hover. There were even a couple’a guys bold enough to ask to bunk next to each other. Slid their cots all the way together when everyone on duty in the ward had allowed it. He’d happened to have been on Post-op duty then. With Hawkeye, who’d smiled- that funny closed-mouthed one where his entire face scrunches up. (And it’s contagious. Trapper’s been working on a cure, but doesn’t think his heart's really in it.) He’d just smiled and helped the kid whose leg was all wrapped up in a cast over to the other bed. And when he’d turned around and caught Trapper’s eyes he’d raised his brows, and Trapper had hadta turn away. 

Heading out of post op Hawkeye had later joked, “who am I to impede young love?”

It’s less strange to see the ones who never make it. As much as he’ll never get acclimated to losing a patient, watching boys "like that" slip away is something he’s familiar with. Watching their friends grieve is something he’s familiar with. And it’s infuriating, cause you feel you should’ve known it would happen. Should’ve known that it was inevitable, because that’s what happens to boys like that. And that grief, it clings to you. That feeling tears at your chest and your throat. 

It’s a special sorta heartsickness. He’d know.

So when he and Hawkeye finally stumble back to the Swamp, he’s too tired to do much more than pop an olive into a wobbling martini glass and fall back into his cot.

Because surgery is exhausting, and Post-op sometimes even more so.

At first he’d never known what to say to the patients when he did his rounds. There’s not a whole lotta one-on-one conversation between surgeon and patient in big clinics, and Trapper’d never been much of a raconteur- not like Hawkeye, who can give you three acts plus intermission of Shakespeare's hits just gesturing some with his hands. But sometimes all the guys need is silence. Someone to sit next to them for a while. And that’s something he can manage, that’s a language he understands. He might not speak Korean any good, and a patient might not speak a word of English, but holding someone’s hand when they’re in pain isn't something that needs any translation. 

That said, despite the fact there ain't much to talk about now- at least nothing pleasant, and that's a time he'd normally appreciate some quiet, Trapper can't stand it. The silence ain’t entirely comfortable cause they’re both still wound up and on edge from all the cutting and stitching they’d had to do the past thirty hours. Frank’s beat it to Margaret’s tent. And while he does appreciate that it’s just him and Hawkeye, Hawkeye’s being quiet. And Trapper doesn't think he can handle quiet right now. Hawkeye’s usually the one who gets a conversation going- with his way of storytelling it’s impossible to not jump in. But with the way Hawk’s folded into his own cot with his eyes glazed over, Trapper figures he’s not gonna get a Hawkeye Pierce brand spiele tonight. 

About crawling outta his skin now with a sudden restlessness, Trapper tips back his drink. His leg tremors a little. There’s gotta be something to talk about, it ain’t like their lives are uneventful. Reaching back into his mind he searches for some conversational thread. Something to get Hawkeye talking, because he looks beat and he knows Trapper is too. And he feels kinda bad for doing this to Hawk, but he needs to hear him talk right now. Hawkeye loves to talk, watching him speak when he’s excited is almost electrifying, the energy he has for it. 

And maybe he's feeling a little mournful. "'Oh, that's good. I was going to say 'melancholic.'"' Hawkeye might say if he were telling the story. 

But he's not. Either way; Trapper’s lonely. 

("Isolated," Hawk might'a suggested.)

Because yes, he has Hawkeye. And Hawk's quickly becoming one of, and, kay- maybe _the_ best friend he's ever had. But he can't stop thinking about all those kids who've cycled through their little slice of paradise. All of _those_ kids. 

Because sure, yeah. Sometimes they make it off the table and through a week of Hawkeye's daily Post-op comedy hour alive. But then what? They return to battle, or they get sent back home to their family with a few new holes (and a pin in their uniform if they're lucky. A new hole in their shirt, 'stead of their chest.) And some of these kids- he doesn't know, but he gets the feeling they don't have much of a family to go back to. 

Plus, there's something about Hawkeye. He's almost certain. They've shared a tent together for some months now (or maybe only a week. Now that he's thinking about it, it might've only been a week.) And they already lean so much on each other, Trapper feels safe around Hawkeye in a way he rarely does with people he don't know. And Hawkeye's not exactly a straight-laced military man. Always flirting with the nurses, but pulling away before things get too much- or not enough. 

He jokes enough, _too much,_ about being queer for a man who ain't. There's a line to be walked when it comes to visibility and safety, and Hawkeye dances it like a high-stakes talent show. Trapper thinks it's a risk he's willing to take. 

And if all ends in Hawkeye walking out on him and tattling to the U.S. Army, that's okay. He just hadn't accounted for it. The fault can't lie on him, cause you can't blame someone for not thinking of something they hadn't thought of. 

So he doesn't think about it. 

In lieu of thinking about it, he spends his last minutes on Earth stewing. Christ, the night's so still he can actually hear crickets. 

Eventually, he volunteers; "You get that hot date with Anderson?" 

Hawkeye starts like he’d forgotten Trapper was even there. Looking up over his drink he gives Trap a considering look. "If you're looking for a bottle of Moët et Chandon with an Earthly chaser in the supply tent you'll have to call in sooner. I'm in very high demand."

No, then. 

Trapper just shrugs. He's a dead man. But that’s okay, he’s not always entirely certain he’s alive out here anyways.

“Did I ever tell you about the day Louise and I got married?” 

Completely pivoting the conversation, he aims for casual and falls slightly short, landing somewhere between "last words'' and “confessional.” Hawkeye sets his gin down by his ankles and sits back. 

“You know, I don’t think so. Because I’m certain I would've remembered the climactic ending.” He waggles his eyebrows, which wrings a nervous bark of laughter outta Trap, before he resolves. “No, you haven’t.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t get your hopes up. It’s not much of a story. Not that kind anyway." He returns the innuendo-laden gesture. And since Trapper is apparently bound an determined to personally ruin the unit's impressively low fatality rate, he carries on. 

"Louise and I, we'd been friends since I'd just started med school. Were real close all that time. So when I graduated and started looking for a practice, and Louise still didn't have a fella, we decided to tie the knot."

Trapper's looking away, but he can tell Hawkeye's eyebrows go up some at that. Not shocked, moderately surprised maybe. 

"I wasn't really looking for a steady relationship at the time, and Louise wasn't looking for a boyfriend, but we both wanted the security. So," he shrugs, "we got hitched. The ceremony weren't anything fancy. It was just us and a few friends. Neither of us, uh, was particularly close to our folks. So that worked out okay."

He takes a deep breath, grateful for the gin in his hand and the day's thirty hour OR session muddying his senses a bit. He’s the right sort of drunk where he’s still entirely aware of what he’s doing, but can’t feel a thing. So he'll spill his guts to Hawk and pass right out. Best case scenario: they'll exchange coded glances in the morning and forget all about it. And if Hawkeye does ask, Trapper'll brush him off. Because he "doesn't remember a thing from last night," and in fact, "that paint thinner we drink is so strong, I'm surprised I still know my own name. And how was your day, Henry?" He'll give Hawkeye the out, a bit to carry that they can play up for levity, and they'll never talk about it again. 

Worst-case scenario: he was wrong about Hawkeye- wrong about everything, and he’ll get sent home with a big bold “UNDESIRABLE” stamp on his papers. Worst-case scenario, he loses his work. He’s not too worried about losing friends or family- it’s not like he and Louise have a specially conventional social life, but there are bills to pay. And not too many hospitals are looking for visibly degenerate surgeons.

Worst-case scenario, Hawkeye won't look him in the eyes anymore. But Hawkeye ain't like that.

He isn't thinking about it.

"Louise had a friend, at the time." Trapper continues. Trying to inject both as much and as little meaning into the word "friend" as possible. He looks down at his lap and realizes his hands are shaking. "She lived with us for a while, shared the Master bedroom." He lets that settle before he agitates it some more. Lets Hawkeye digest it. 

Trapper finally turns his head, looks out vaguely in Hawkeye's direction. Not meeting his eyes, though. 

"With Louise." 

His eyes dart up to Hawkeye's face, trying to catch his reaction. Hawkeye's such an open book most of the time, but he can put up a pretty impressive poker face- even if it doesn’t always help him that much in their regular unit games. Trapper hasn’t said anything explicit, but if Hawkeye knows what he means, he’s definitely said enough. It's just ambiguous enough, hopefully. To give him some leeway. If he wants to spin it as a complete joke- or shift the truth somewhat to fit it into a nice, respectable, more heterosexual fantasy. 

A few seconds pass, he watches Hawkeye take that in. Watches him nod his head in thought, and then understanding. 

It's excruciating. 

Eventually, Hawkeye speaks up.

"They shared the bed and you slept at the end, I suppose."

The joking takes Trapper somewhat off-guard, even though it shouldn't. And his first instinct is to pack the entire conversation up, shove it under his cot, and call it a night. With everything it'd taken for him to say that. If Hawkeye wasn't going to take this seriously… But that's not entirely fair, because this sort of self-preservation is a two-way street. And there's a light in Hawk's eyes and his uncertain smile lights something in Trapper's chest and he can't not play along. 

"Yeah, right nextta the cat." 

"You had a cat?"

"What, a house full'a queers and no cat? It wouldn't be complete." Spills from his lips before he gives it a single thought. 

There goes ambiguity. 

There's a pause, where the two of them stare each other down. The weight of exactly what Trapper'd confessed to hanging over the room like a winding sheet, Until the tension stills. 

And it breaks, rippling out like waves. 

Hawkeye grins, so his eyes are all crinkled up and his nose is bright red, and laughs out loud. Head thrown back over the edge of his cot as he falls into his pillow. And Trapper's smiling and laughing too. Something restrained that quickly graduates to full-body howls between coughs. Laughing at Hawkeye, laughing at himself. Laughing at the war. Laughing because he was so, so scared, and still is. 

When Hawkeye's finally recovered enough to speak, he sits up and reaches for his martini glass. "Well, from one friend of Dorothy to another; a toast." 

And it's not like being back in South End. He doesn't feel any more safe in this man's army, and he's not any less afraid for those kids out on the battlefield or on the operating table, or the ones begging to not be sent home. Not any less scared for himself. Not any less scared for Hawkeye. 

But some of that weight has been lifted. He doesn't have to pretend, not with Hawk. 

Not about this, at least. 

He sees the broad expanse of Hawkeye's pale back, his own body haphazardly laid atop, Hawkeye's practiced hands twisting in his stateside bedsheets. Trapper turns, and,

And he's awake. 

To the roar of jeeps and incoming wounded and a tension in his jaw that’s starting to pull at the rest of his body.

So he thinks, Well. There are worse ways to wake up gasping for breath.

**Author's Note:**

> not sure if this'll turn into something! but! either way, thank you for reading! have a good day!  
> and, hey. leave a comment if you feel like it. to soothe my achy insecure 'not-a-writer' heart.


End file.
